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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838231">The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyin_particular/pseuds/nobodyin_particular'>nobodyin_particular</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mirror of Erised au, POV Alternating, harry potter au kinda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:27:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838231</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyin_particular/pseuds/nobodyin_particular</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Baz don't know that they want the same thing.</p><p>--<br/>Mirror of Erised AU, if that's a thing? It is now, I guess.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>SIMON</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t know why I showed up on his doorstep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t know why I’m standing outside his bedroom door right now, with my mind stuck in a similar civil war to the one when I was covered in snow and muck, standing outside Grimm-Pitch Manor earlier today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I run through my mental list of things I’m currently trying not to think about. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Number one: </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How he’s going to react to me as I am right now: awake at two in the morning, saying I can’t sleep, wearing only plaid boxers, wool socks, and an old Watford shirt that’s about three sizes too small for me at this point. I feel like a child running to their mother, begging to sleep in her bed with her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I won’t ask to sleep in his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Asking to sleep in the same bed as a vampire seems like a death wish, anyway.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Number two: </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What do I really expect him to do about my current insomnia? I sure as Merlin don’t trust him to cast a spell on me, even if it’s just a simple lullaby to make me drowsy. Christ, I don’t even know if I’d trust him to get me a glass of warm milk, magic or no. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So what do I want from him? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter; I’m not thinking about it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Number three:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The way his eyes crawled over me and lingered on my thighs when I was taking off my muddy boots in his doorway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s enough not-thinking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I raise my hand to knock, but before I can do anything, his door rips open and he’s glaring at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Typical. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What’s that arsehole plotting now?</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>BAZ</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t sleep knowing that Snow is in my house. Just across the hall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure, at Watford we sleep in the same room, but this feels so much more . . . intimate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(I use that word begrudgingly when it comes to Simon.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can hear his heartbeat from here. I don’t have to focus very hard to know that mine is going at the same pace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hear it increase as he moves, and I hear floorboards creak. Mine speeds up to match.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What is that git up to now? Please tell me he didn’t come to my house just to spy on me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I hear him and the creaking getting closer, now with the addition of his breathing. (Mouth-breather.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stands outside my door for what seems like hours, but the clock on my nightstand says is only about three minutes. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, and he’ll be lucky if he hasn’t woken up the rest of my family yet with the noise the floor is making, no matter how big this place is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I stand up, wordlessly light a small flame in my palm and quickly pad towards the door, ignoring the way I immediately go cold as soon as I leave my bed and its many blankets. (Maybe I should’ve worn a shirt to bed tonight; it’s freezing in here.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I yank the door open, and as my gaze falls on the beauty that is Simon Snow, I feel whatever is left of my soul leave my wretched, undead body. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I look him in his eyes first, which unnerves him and makes him stare at the floor, and I almost regret that I can’t stare at the plain, boring blue that is his eyes before I realize that this gives me the chance to freely look him up and down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s wearing an old Watford crewneck, one that is far too small for him. I wonder what year he got the shirt; must’ve been third or fourth year judging by the way the material hugs his broad shoulders and ends about ten centimeters above where it’s supposed to on his arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It also ends about the same distance above where it’s supposed to on his torso; instead, it’s giving me a full view of his navel (and a mole right next to it that I’ve never seen) and the faint trail of golden curls and freckles leading down into his plaid boxers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This boy is going to be the death of me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before I can eye him up any further, he looks up and clears his throat. I raise an eyebrow, knowing that that always pisses him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m right, of course, and his eyebrows crease as his face flushes bright red, his freckles near disappearing in the rosy color. It’s not hard to disappear in Simon.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He huffs, his cheeks puffing out in just the slightest. It’s dreadfully adorable. “I can’t sleep,” he says, and his voice is raspy from lack of use. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what his morning voice sounds like. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the domestic though that just crossed my mind. “What do you want me to do about that, Snow? Make you a glass of warm milk and sing you a lullaby?” A vision of that flashes through my head: Simon’s head in my lap, my hands in his hair, my voice soothing him enough that he falls asleep, and we live happily ever after.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, right. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But then, for a second, his eyes widen and his cheeks flush a deeper red for just a second, and I realize that he must’ve thought about that. He stutters out a retort, but my heart’s already racing. “I-I-I d-don’t know, you t-t-twat! Can we just- I don’t know. Can we walk around for a while? I would do it on my own but don’t want to get lost. Please?” He looks guilty as he finishes his word-vomit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, let me put a shirt on first.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s a fool if he thinks I could ever deny him.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>SIMON</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I already regret knocking on his bedroom door. (Even though I didn’t technically knock yet.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at me until I look at my feet, and I feel his eyes trail over me, and I think about his gaze on my legs as I was taking off my wet boots again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No more thinking, Simon. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I look up and give a fake cough to try to ease the tension as I look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tension only thickens as I realize that Baz is shirtless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s holding a small fire in his hand and wearing his stupid posh silk pajama bottoms that he wears at Watford, so that’s no difference, but when we’re in our room, he always wears a shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not this time. This time, I absorb the truth that ‘holy fuck, my roommate is fit’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As my eyes lock onto his incredibly visible six (eight?) pack, I think of that Cristiano Ronaldo Calvin Klein photoshoot that Agatha and Penny wouldn’t shut up about a couple of years ago. I remind myself that he does play football, but Merlin and Methuselah . . . </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I tell myself to stop thinking. Again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looks like he’s expecting an answer, and I feel stupid as I say that I can’t sleep. He rolls his eyes like I’m the biggest inconvenience to ever inconvenience someone. “What do you want me to do about that, Snow? Make you a glass of warm milk and sing you a lullaby?” I feel my face go hot and his mouth does something weird, kind of like he ate a lemon. His flame flickers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I like the weird thing his mouth just did, and I feel my mouth start to dissociate from my brain, and suddenly I’m trying to talk my way out of this. “I-I-I d-don’t know, you t-t-twat!” Shut up. “Can we just- I don’t know. Can we walk around for a while?” Shut up, Simon. “I would do it on my own but don’t want to get lost. Please?” SHUT UP. This time my brain overpowers my mouth, and it’s like someone’s turned off a tap. Whatever I had to say is suddenly dried up on my tongue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My face burns again, but I ignore it as I meet his eyes. As soon as I do, something changes and his shoulders relax as his posture softens. “Alright, let me put a shirt on first.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The boys wander the hallways of Grimm-Pitch Manor</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>BAZ</p><p>I already knew that he ran warm, but this is so much. He’s only in his pants and some thick wool socks and his stupid too-small shirt. Warmth rolls off of him despite the halls being near freezing. Either way, I’m secretly grateful for the heat that he provides. Even being within an arms-reach distance is more than close enough to feel his heat spread through my entire being. I don’t know Bunce can stand it. </p><p>He asks about a portrait of a great-great-uncle of mine and makes a joke about how he looks like the model for Dracula. I don’t bother telling him how close to the truth he is. Instead, I tell him about how the house is haunted by wraiths and how many people have died in this house. He starts inching closer to me as he looks around nervously, like a kid scared of ghost stories. </p><p>Him coming closer only encourages me to keep talking. </p><p>I keep going, now telling him about how I creep the wraiths out, which make them go into the spare room across from me. The room he’s staying in. </p><p>Then something changes. Simon is suddenly closer to me than he’s ever been, besides when we were fighting. His knuckles brush mine and despite how hot he runs, goose-hairs crawl up the back of my neck.</p><p>I don’t dare move my hand. <br/>Neither does he.</p><p>I think for a moment that he’s trying to light me on fire, from the inside out. I can’t tell if this, him touching me, his hand skimming mine with every stride we take, is intentional or not. <br/>I don’t know whether I want it to be on purpose or not. <br/>(Yes I do.) </p><p> </p><p>SIMON</p><p>I didn’t expect Baz to say yes to taking a walk with me, so when he did, I should’ve known it was a part of a plot: him trying to scare me. <br/>He tells me about dead relatives, many of which apparently died in the bed that I’m sleeping in, and the wraiths, and how he creeps them out, so they hide in my room instead.</p><p>I don’t completely blame them.</p><p>My hand touches his. </p><p>I don’t remember walking closer to him. Am I under his vampire thrall? When we started off from his bedroom, we were on opposite sides of the hallway with at least a meter or two between us. Apparently, over the course of the last ten minutes, I’ve either subconsciously crept closer to him in the midst of his ghost stories or he’s seduced me into walking close enough. </p><p>Close enough that he can attack.</p><p>I don’t move away. <br/>I don’t want to. <br/>So I move closer. </p><p>I’m just starting to think about grabbing his hand when I realize he’s slowed down and is now standing in front of a tall arched door. He’s staring into space, and I take the moment to look at him. </p><p>Whenever I look at him, he’s either sneering at me, pissed at me, or I’m watching him when he’s asleep. This is one of the first times I can remember seeing him relaxed around me. Then I notice that, really, he has been this entire evening. </p><p>Baz has his hair up in a knot towards the back of his head, but some of it is too short to make it to the knot and instead falls in his face. I would tuck it behind his ear if I didn’t think he would bite my hand off in the process. <br/>He has wire-framed glasses resting on his crooked nose. I feel a twinge of guilt before I remember how much he deserved it.<br/>The fire in his hand (the one that isn’t between us) casts shadows under his cheekbones and jaw. </p><p>He’s prettier when he isn’t mocking me.</p><p>“What’s this door?” My voice startles him like he forgot I was there. He looks at me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. (When did he have time to feed?)</p><p>“Uh- it’s just- it’s a lot of dusty antiques. Nothing you’d be interested in.”</p><p>He could not possibly sound more suspicious. I need to see what’s in there. </p><p> </p><p>BAZ</p><p>I start thinking about what would happen if I grabbed Simon’s hand- or worse (better?)- if he grabbed mine when we reach the Relics. <br/>I come to a stop and stare at the looming oak door, framed by tiny dragon carvings that move and breathe fire when an intruder tries to enter the room. The Mage tried going in here a few weeks ago, but the dragons charred him before he could see what was in there. </p><p>That was probably for the best; he would have my father imprisoned for the books alone, not to mention the hundreds of other magickal and cursed artifacts in there. I’m just thinking about the Heart’s Reflection when Simon’s voice shocks me out of my thoughts. </p><p>He asks what the room is, and he sounds far too curious for my taste. I tell him it’s nothing of interest, but my hesitation gives me away, and his brow sets with determination. </p><p>I sigh, knowing that either I go in here with him or he’s going to try to go in on his own, which will end far worse for both of us. Crowley knows that if the dragons spit fire at him, he’ll probably try to spit fire back instinctively and end up going off, thus ending Grimm-Pitch Manor and probably the entire Pitch bloodline, for that matter. </p><p>“Can we look?” he asks, and I try to glare at him, but I have a feeling that it doesn’t work. I’m too tired to do that tonight. <br/>I try not to let the way that he keeps referring to a “we” go to my head. It doesn’t work. </p><p>I make him take an oath to not tell anyone about what he sees or what happens in here, not fully trusting him to not go the Mage. Or Bunce. </p><p>He’s hesitant, but eventually accepts, and I hold the door open for him. </p><p>He thanks me and touches my arm as he passes by, and I feel myself swoon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>here's chapter 2!!</p><p>as before, kudos, bookmarks, and comments are much appreciated!! xx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A glance into the Relic Room.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>SIMON</p>
<p>The first thing I'm hit with is dust. Clouds of it.</p>
<p><br/>Baz and I both go into our own coughing fits as the particles settle in our lungs. (I wouldn't be surprised if there was asbestos in here to boot.)</p>
<p><br/>The next thing I realize is how dark it is.</p>
<p><br/>Although a few vials and antiques on the shelves let off a dim glow, Baz's fire is the only substantial light source. It casts shadows on the walls that remind me of the Black Dog that led me and Penny on one of our Mage-approved adventures. It's also the only heat source, and I'm suddenly grateful that I'm standing so close to Baz.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once the dust settles and the tears from our coughing fits recede, I begin to properly look around. And holy fuck, I could get the Grimms arrested for even one shelf of this stuff.</p>
<p>Must be why Baz made me take that stupid oath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I see vials of glowing liquid, books that smell like rotting flesh, a ball that groans when you walk by it. Retired portraits of (presumably) dead family members are stacked in a corner by the door. A fur rug, bigger than a bear, is rolled up and bound with chains in a crate, along with some floral wallpaper.</p>
<p>Something shiny in the midst of all the rust and grim catches my eye, and that's when I see it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Swords.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I make a bee-line, knocking into genuine history, which makes Baz hiss something I'd rather not repeat. The one that caught my eye is stunning: an eastern European hilt, wrapped in leather, with an obsidian-studded pommel, and a blade with swirls of black and silver, which move as I touch them.</p>
<p>I pick it up to ask Baz about it when I realize he's gone missing from my side. I look around quickly, heart racing, as I realize he's probably about to attack me when I see his light floating in the back left corner, opposite from me. He's still and silent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>What's got him so entranced?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>BAZ</p>
<p>I haven't been in here in ages. Not since I realized that this is where my father keeps my mother's belongings.</p>
<p><br/>I saw her portrait by the door and prayed that Snow wouldn't ask about it. (He didn't.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've seen everything in here, so instead, I trail Simon, watching the gears turn in his head as he tries to take in everything I've just placed in front of him. He runs into something and I call him a name my mother would be ashamed of, and he quickly apologizes before going to look at the swords. Typical.</p>
<p>While he seems preoccupied, I head to the opposite wall, where I know the most invaluable artifact is.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Heart's Reflection.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's not too complicated: it's a mirror: oval and framed in ornate carvings. A Mage says the name of the mirror, and it shows you what you want most. Up until third-year, the mirror always showed my mother standing next to me.Then something changed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I mutter the spell under my breath, and it shows the same thing as always.</p>
<p>A tan, freckled hand in mine. Wool socks on the floorboards. A mess of brown curls attached to the head of Simon Snow.</p>
<p>His voice (real-Simon, that is) shocks me out of my reflection.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What are you looking at?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Mirror knows more than Simon and Baz.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>SIMON</p>
<p>My voice makes him flinch, and I almost feel bad until I see a pale pink spread across his cheeks, and then I want to do it again. </p>
<p>He was just staring at a mirror. Nothing special about it. </p>
<p>I expected the reflection to show your worst nightmare or something, but it was just him and I standing next to each other. (I suppose that's as close to a nightmare as it could come.) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>So why was he glaring at it like it insulted his grandmother?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He recovers from his shock and turns his glare on me.</p>
<p>"It's a mirror, dimwit, but it wouldn't surprise me if you've never seen one with how your shirttails are never tucked in."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In lieu of a comeback, I roll my eyes and go to inspect the mirror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The frame is a dull bronze, carved with ivy leaves and grapes. There's a heart (like, a proper anatomical one) at the very top, about a foot above both of our heads. (Baz is only three inches taller than me. I'm not upset about it.) (Maybe I'm a little upset.) </p>
<p>Underneath the heart is a cursive inscription: </p>
<p>
  <em>Cor ipsius ponderationem.</em>
</p>
<p>I suddenly regret not paying attention in Greek. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Baz is still watching me when I ask him what it means. </p>
<p>He scoffs.</p>
<p>"First of all, that's Latin, not Greek. Second of all, why should I tell you?" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I roll my eyes again. <em>Prat.</em> </p>
<p>"What do you have to lose? Listen, since I'm literally dying of curiosity, I'll offer something in return: I have a secret that you'd like to know."</p>
<p>(I don't actually have a secret, but I'll make something up.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This seems to satisfy him, and he tells me it means "the heart's reflection". </p>
<p>I mutter it under my breath, and I feel the magic flow out of me without trying. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The mirror's image swirls but doesn't change. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not at first. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I turn to ask Baz what was supposed to happen, and I again notice the untucked hair in front of his eyes. It looks soft and I want to thread it through my fingers. </p>
<p>Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn to the mirror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Reflection-Simon is tucking the hair behind his ear. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>BAZ</p>
<p>Simon keeps glancing between me and the reflection and I feel my heart sink as I realize what I've done. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The mirror has shown him how to kill me, likely outing me as a bloodsucker in the process due to the limited ways I can die (that I know of). </p>
<p>He <em>did </em>have a silver-based sword in his hand a minute ago, which would do the trick. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His voice is softer this time as he says my name, and my heart skips again. </p>
<p>"Baz..? What does this mirror do?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think through my options:</p>
<p>1. Lie: this seems the most viable choice, but I think even Snow is smart enough to know what the inscription implies. </p>
<p>Which leaves:</p>
<p>2. Tell the truth: give him the ammunition he needs to finish me off.</p>
<p>
  <em>There are worse ways to go than at the hands of Simon. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Confessions. (Almost.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>SIMON</p><p>Baz's voice is so quiet that I almost don't hear him and he won't meet my eyes. </p><p>"It shows you what you want most in the world."</p><p> </p><p>I kind of thought that's what it was, but it must be bugged. </p><p>I don't want to tuck his hair away from his grey eyes.</p><p>I don't want to hold his hand.</p><p>I don't want him to hold mine in return.</p><p>I don't want him to touch my jaw. </p><p> </p><p>I don't want to kiss Baz. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Right?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>BAZ</p><p>That only seems to baffle him more. </p><p>
  <em>Maybe he wasn't smart enough to figure it out.</em>
</p><p>Maybe I just fucked myself over. </p><p> </p><p>His voice cracks as he tells me he thinks it's wrong somehow.</p><p>(It's ancient blood magic: it can't lie. I don't tell him that, though.) I ask why.</p><p> </p><p>His entire face goes bright red again, like it did when he was stuttering at my bedroom doorway. </p><p>"I- well- y'see-" He huffs in frustration before grabbing my hand. </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>"See what I mean?"</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>His words are laced in magic, and I go dizzy before my sight changes. </p><p> </p><p>I must've blacked out for a second because I've taken a step to the right, and I begin to berate him, but my voice sounds strange. <em>Deeper. </em></p><p>I cut myself off and I feel my head turn to the left, and I see myself. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Holy shit, I'm in Simon's body. This can't be legal.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before I have time to process this, Simon says the spell again, this time without magic, and points at the mirror.</p><p> </p><p>The mirror never lies, and by the gods, this is the most beautiful truth out there. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Reflection-Simon is snogging Reflection-Me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Simon wants to snog me and he doesn't know it. </em>
</p>
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